


Help, I'm Alive (My Heart Keeps Beating like a Hammer)

by gauras



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Crying, Gen, Imagined Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, hoo boy this is dark my dudes, there's a lot of crying and i'm not the slightest bit sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: Shiro's disappearance leaves everyone shaken; there are holes to fill, and those that don't want to fill them. The Galra Empire isn't going to give up easily, and it's not like the Paladins can take a who-knows-how-long break to search for their missing leader. Sacrifices must be made in war, and sometimes it's better to move on rather than letting wounds fester.Except, Shiro's not as gone as some believe. And he's in trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me, while writing this: wow i'm a terrible person
> 
> heavily inspired by various theories and headcanons i've seen floating around ye olde tumblr. [this one](http://bosstoaster.tumblr.com/post/156581033572/i-like-the-idea-of-shiro-being-flung-out-by-the) in particular (which i really hope is alright)
> 
> anyways, welcome to the 'i love shiro and thus he must Suffer' club! i've been sitting on this for a couple of weeks, thinking and pondering and plotting. i figured i'd share because there's nothing like a good dose of that sweet, sweet Validation to keep you going
> 
> a side note: i try to be as sensitive to topics as i can be, but sometimes it's just open-mouth-insert-foot. please, please tell me if i make a mistake in the things i portray
> 
> unbeta'd, so all typos are mine

It’s the throbbing in his head that drags him awake, an ache that sits low and heavy behind his eyes. He blinks his eyes open then immediately squints, bright golden light stinging his eyes, and his head gives a warning throb. Slowly, gingerly, he sits up, carefully looking around him, something deep inside him urging him to move. He sits in a field of grass, soft pink seed heads bobbing gently in a slight breeze. Twisted, gnarled trees line one edge of the sloping meadow; the sky is a brilliant blue overhead. He turns to look behind him.

Where _is_ he?

He climbs to his feet, stopping halfway through to catch his breath and stop the world from spinning around him. He’s exhausted, completely drained of energy, but he manages to stand before his headache reappears with a vengeance. He takes a couple of uneven steps before one of his feet hits something in the grass. Bending down, he picks up the object. It’s a helmet; white and black, cracked and splintering on the back, dented on the side. He turns it over in his hands curiously, and is suddenly hit with an onslaught of sound; people shouting in his ears, concern and worry and _fear_ , something – his name? – being called over and over again, getting more garbled and distant. He drops the helmet, stumbles back a few steps, the sound cutting off once the helmet leaves his grip. He presses a shaking hand to his aching head, breathes heavily, in through his nose, out through his mouth. The pain in his head passes slowly, subsiding to manageable levels, and he picks up the helmet again, bracing himself as he does so.

Nothing happens.

Letting out a breath of relief, he cradles the helmet to his chest, a feeling in his gut telling him it’s important, a connection to… _something_. He turns a slow circle, squints at the mountains in the distance, then starts down the hillside, steps unsteady and uncertain.

* * *

 

The once pleasantly warm sunlight quickly becomes hot, then sweltering. He stops frequently for breaks, resting under the tall purple trees. His mouth is dry, tongue almost sticky.

When he rests, he tries to parse through his fragmented memories, tries to figure out what’s going on. This situation isn’t right, and he has the nagging feeling that things are horribly wrong. There’s someone out there that _needs_ him, but he can’t remember who or why.

He remembers… not a lot, in all honesty. He remembers the Garrison, the stress and too many late nights studying and the oppressive heat of the desert. Maybe a mop of black hair, dark eyes? Maybe.

Not making much headway in trying to figure out the past, he takes stock of the present. The world around him is vibrant, bright colors mixing with deep shadows. The trees aren’t like anything he’s seen before, bark almost soft and rubbery, fleshy. The pink grass that he first found himself in has thinned out in the shade of the trees, replaced by teal ferns that wave delicate fronds in a nonexistent breeze. Everything seems so… _alien,_ and he almost lets himself believe that he’s not on Earth. But that can’t be right, humans haven’t made it out of the solar system, the furthest manned missions have only reached Jupiter’s moons. Right? He has the feeling that that’s wrong, that he’s much, _much_ farther than Jupiter, or Saturn, or Neptune or Uranus or even Pluto. That makes his head spin, and he has to put his head between his knees, tries to breathe through his nausea.

He turns his attention away from the unusual flora and instead tries to pry himself out of whatever it is he’s wearing. It’s armor of a sort, flexible and durable, and it almost reminds him of plastic. He feels along the sides of the chest piece, cuts a finger on where it’s cracked, searching for a seam or clasps or a latch, _something_ that will release it. He comes up empty, resigns himself to marching through the blistering heat with a full suit of armor on.

What was he doing, before, that required such protection?

That one question brings flashes of running and flying and blood and pain to mind, and he quickly focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

* * *

 

He makes camp at the base of one of the fleshy trees, tucking himself between its twisted roots, curling up as tight as he can. The air’s cooled down as day gave way to night, and his armor keeps him downright cozy. Suddenly he’s glad that he couldn’t figure out how to get it off.

Hunger curls low in his gut, but he ignores it with (practiced?) ease. Thirst itches at the back of his throat, much more insistent and hard to forget. Briefly, he considers hacking at the tree he’s pressed up against, pulling off a chunk to chew or suck on. He dismisses the thought – if he’s really on an alien planet, then how wise would it be to attack the local flora? What if it’s less like vegetation and more like an animal? What if something lives inside it? What if it’s poisonous? He can imagine it now – removing a small chunk and thousands of tiny insects come bursting out; or sticking it in his mouth just to wind up convulsing on the ground, throat closing up because he had an allergic reaction to a tree.

He’s not dying from a thousand of angry bugs _or_ anaphylactic shock, thank you very much.

So he pushes aside the thought, the wild scenarios (some small part of his mind realizes that he’s spiraling), and settles in for sleep.

* * *

 

_There’s that head of black hair again, those intense dark eyes. A boy, a couple years younger than himself. Wind whips around them, sand dancing in the breeze. The air is cool and dry, the ground is soft and warm. He digs his fingers into the sand, is mildly surprised when he feels the rough grains with both hands._

What?

_“-iro? You okay?” He jumps, he’d forgotten about the other boy. “Don’t tell me you’ve had too many late nights and fried your brain.” The boy smirks, but worry hides in the creases of his eyes. “If you’re getting sleepy, we can head back.”_

_“Please, sleep is for the weak,” he hears himself say, “We can’t skip our Friday night tradition just because it’s finals week, Keith.”_

_The kid – Keith – bumps shoulders with him. “You and your damn traditions. Haven’t you heard, Shiro, routine sucks the creativity right out of you?”_

_He laughs, but it sounds like he’s underwater, garbled and indistinct. “You don’t need much creativity when you’re flying a space ship.” He sprawls out on his back, sand falling down the back of his collar. Stars twinkle brightly overhead, the Milky Way a bright ribbon across the night sky. An orange star shines in the east, getting closer._

_Keith says something, but he doesn’t pay attention, instead his eyes fasten on the star, fast approaching, getting bigger and brighter, an orange streak headed straight for the ground. It’s going so fast, streaking, shooting, falling, and when it_ crashes _-_

He wakes with a strangled gasp, breath caught in his chest, and the soft roots around him feel too close, too much like walls, and he cradles his head in his hands.

_Shiro._ The dream is already fading but he repeats his name over and over to himself. _Shiro._ He won’t lose it again.

* * *

 

The days pass in relative peace and monotony. Wake up, search for water, find none. Walk through the day, take frequent naps, make camp at the base of giant trees each night. Rinse, repeat.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that water could be conserved by walking at night, rather than the day. He blames the dehydration.

Each night brings more dreams, each more strange and outlandish than the last. Keith’s dark hair turns into a swirling galaxy seen from inside a cell. The cell becomes a small space craft, too tight to comfortably house three scientists. Shiro remembers Dr. Holt and Matt. Matt’s face mixes with another, far younger. Katie. Pidge? Then he’s shoving Pidge-Katie-Matt, fighting in an arena, and there’s crying, always crying but the crying’s coming from another person, tall and broad and anxious. Hunk. A calming hand is on Hunk’s shoulder, an easy quip on Lance’s lips but then Lance dissolves, taking Hunk and Katie and Keith with him, all swirling together, blue and yellow and red and green mixing to make black and then gold eyes emerge from the dark, warm and intimidating while a soft growl rumbles through the back of Shiro’s mind.

The dreams that feature those golden eyes scare Shiro; it’s so easy for them to go cold and calculating, malice sparking in their unknowable depths.

But still. He’s grateful for the dreams, glad he can remember his friends, his _family_. Shiro feels as though he doesn’t remember them all, but that’s alright. He’s got time.

* * *

 

They find Shiro at evening, while he’s dozing and half out of his mind with dehydration. A kick to his foot startles him awake, has him blinking up at two tall figures standing over him in the fading evening light. They have weapons trained on him, and one of them kicks him again.

“Get up,” they grunt, voice low and rough, speaking in a guttural language that Shiro’s surprised to understand. Another kick. “Up.”

He raises his hands cautiously, carefully gets his feet under him, mindful of the headache still brewing in his temples. Apparently, he’s too slow for one of the strangers, who grabs the collar of his armor and hauls him up by it. He shuts his eyes as the world whirls around him, stumbles when he’s set on his feet. Shiro pants around the bile rising in his throat, eyes still clenched shut, and he almost misses it when they shackle his hands together behind his back.

One of his captors shoves the end of their weapon into his shoulder, gives him a shove. “Go.” Part of himself tells him to resist, to fight. Tells him that _he can take them_ , but another, louder part, tells him to be complacent, to bow his head and follow along, _it’ll hurt less_. He shuffles forward, flanked front and back by his captors.

The helmet, his connection to the past that he’s just begun to remember, is left on the ground, tucked between the roots of one of the fleshy trees.

* * *

 

It’s amazing, Shiro thinks with a sort of morbid fascination, that he knows just the right way to slump his shoulders, the right way to walk to lessen the strain in his shoulders, lessen the chafing around his wrists. His body knows to walk a step and a half behind the first guard, head bowed and submissive.

* * *

 

Once again, Shiro’s glad that he couldn’t figure out how to remove his armor. Something tells him that where he’s going, he’ll need it.

* * *

 

The guards lead him down the hillside, through picturesque meadows illuminated by the light of two moons. Shiro tries asking where they’re headed, but they only shove him with their weapons, each push more vicious than the last. He stops trying, after a while.

They crest one last hill just as the sun is starting to peek over the once distant mountains. He stops short, bumps into one of the guards, who gives him a sharp jab with their weapon. Obediently, he starts walking again, eyes fastened on what’s below him.

Nestled into the foothills of the mountains is what can only be described as a fortress, large and sprawling, enclosed by rough-hewn stone walls, purplish light sparking in a dome around the entire complex. A little ways away, several sets of walls surround a smaller complex, pushed right up against the mountain. If he squints, Shiro thinks maybe he can see little dots swarming into a hole in the mountainside.

He’s lead to the main part of the fortress, through heavy gates that seem at odds with the advanced technology around him. They enter the main building, twisting through cool and dark hallways lit by strips of purple light. The light sets his teeth on edge, and dark things scratch at the edges of his mind, but flit away when he grasps at them. They finally stop outside a set of ornate doors, guarded by two sentries (aliens? He has the sinking feeling that they’re aliens.).

“A prisoner?” one of the sentries asks, “Why did you bring it here instead of the prison block?”

“The Duchess will want to see this one,” one of his captors says. The other sentries seem unconvinced, but they obligingly step aside, and the great doors open, leading into what must be a throne room. They walk down the room until they stand in front of a plush throne, another alien lounging luxuriously in it.

_Galra_ , his mind supplies. A shiver courses through his body, and he fights to stay still and composed.

The Galra – this must be the Duchess his guard referred to – barely spares them a glance. “What is this, Hraxon? You know better than to bother me with prisoners.” One of his guards steps forward, gives a short bow.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I believe that this one is an exception.”

The Duchess looks up again, dull yellow eyes narrowing as she considers them. She lets out a surprised noise, then stands in a swish of fabric. She is tall, much taller than Shiro’s guards, and slender, almost willowy. She has short, purple fur, large ears that end in longer tufts. The Duchess steps forward, skirts swishing about her legs. She stops right in front of him, and Shiro resists the urge to look away, to expose his neck and submit. Instead, he maintains eye contact as steadily as he can, though he flinches when she grabs his chin, sharp claws digging into his cheeks. She turns his head to the side, brushes his bangs off his forehead with her other hand, the touch almost gentle. Suddenly, she lets go, a delighted laugh escaping her as she steps back.

“You’re right, Hraxon, this is an exception.” The Duchess clasps her hands behind her back, cocks her head, considering. “Tell me, Black Paladin, how you came to my little corner of the universe?” The name sends a jolt through him, and a thick, heavy presence at the back of him mind stirs at it. It feels _right_ , like something he’s earned and deserves. It’s a start to figuring out his place in the universe, far more concrete than the vague dreams he’s had.

At his silence, the Duchess laughs again. “Come now, my dear, there’s no need to be shy.” Shiro keeps his mouth stubbornly shut, and the Duchess frowns. “Hraxon, was his lion nearby?”

“No, my lady. I sent the drone in search of it, but there was nothing. Perhaps he took a pod?” The Duchess purses her lips.

"Are you on the run, Paladin? Decided saving the universe was too much a burden? We know how… adept you are at running away from your problems.” Shiro flinches and the Duchess smirks, sharp teeth catching the light, clearly pleased with herself.

“I’m not!” he growls, “I’m, I’m-” He draws a blank, remembers that he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing here. For all he knows, the Duchess is right. The Duchess clicks her tongue, waves a dismissive hand.

“Take him to the prison, Hraxon. Then send for the witch. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear we’ve found her recalcitrant pet.” Hraxon grabs his shoulder, spins him, and marches him out of the room. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay here, Champion.”

His steps falter at the name, knees suddenly weak. Hraxon grips his shoulder more tightly, and shoves him through the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title comes from metric's 'help i'm alive.' i feel like it reeeeally fits w shiro's fun times w the galra, so maybe give it a listen
> 
> fun fact: i dreamt that i posted this and that all of the comments were variations of 'neat premise but ur writing is icy as fuck'
> 
> what can ya do


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three things:
> 
> 1\. thank u all so much for the kudos, comments, and support! they honestly mean the world 2 me and i'm over the moon that u took the time to show ur support!
> 
> 2\. basic structure of this fic (bc i forgot last week whoops): we're gonna alternate between shiro and the pals, so we get a good amount of well-rounded angst. i'm sorry if this feels a bit like a bait-and-switch, i know ur probably here for that sweet shiro angst
> 
> 3\. re: pidge + gender + pronouns: personally, i headcanon pidge as agender/demigirl/transgirl and use feminine/gender neutral pronouns
> 
> anyways, thank u again for reading! pls enjoy~

The days are… quiet, with Shiro gone. Breakfast is a sullen affair, each zeroed in on their own personal bowl of food goo. Training is tense, with Allura trying to fill in for Shiro. She’s an excellent fighter, that much is clear, but her idea of what the paladins should be able to do versus what they can actually accomplish are wildly different. Shiro was their go-between, the moderator that kept both parties happy. Now, they have to do without.

They no longer have dinner together, tempers having run too short over the course of the day to maintain any semblance of civility by the time evening rolls around.

The first few weeks without Shiro were a mad dash of activity: analyzing, tracking, searching, _searching_. Pidge spent countless hours with her laptop hooked up to the black lion, scrolling through line after line of code, searching for some clue as to where Shiro could be. Allura had put out messages to those few that are part of the Voltron Alliance, asking them to keep their ears to the ground and pass on any information they might find. Hunk kept an eye on subspace frequencies, looking for distress signals or Galra chatter that could point them in the direction of their lost leader. Keith and Lance made frequent stops to nearby planets, coercing and bullying locals for something, _anything_ about where Shiro might be.

No one’s had any luck.

So team morale is low at this point, and Keith can’t help but think of that dusty planet he and Shiro had crashed on after the corrupted wormhole spat them out. Can’t help but think of Shiro’s pale face, the cauterized claw marks on his side, the subtle tremble in Shiro’s voice as he tells Keith that _If I don’t make it out of here_ …

Keith shakes his head, glares down at his bowl of goo. Shiro’s fine. He’s _fine_. In a couple of weeks, they’ll find him. Maybe a little bloodied and bruised, maybe lounging on a beach sipping away at a piña colada. But they’ll find him. And it’ll all be okay. Right?

Right.

“Keith?” Keith jumps, startled out of his thoughts. “You alright there, buddy?” It’s Hunk, concern lining his tired eyes. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well, Keith notices absently.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Lance gives a snort from across the table, and Keith shoots him a dark look.

“You sure, man? Because you were glaring lasers at your food goo.”

“How about you pay attention to your own breakfast?” Keith fires back. Lance opens his mouth to reply, but Allura holds up a hand.

“Please,” she says, rubbing at her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, “can you two not argue this early in the morning?”

Lance shuts his mouth, looking contrite, and Keith ducks his head.

“Sorry, Princess,” they both mutter. Allura only nods. Silence returns to the table, this one more subdued than before.

* * *

 

Training is grueling, to say the least. Allura has them going round after round with the Gladiator, and Keith honestly doesn’t know if it’s punishment for breakfast or Allura’s way of working out her stress and frustration. Maybe it’s both.

Finally, Allura calls it quits, and everyone lets out a collective sigh of relief. Lance collapses to the floor in a dramatic heap, dragging Hunk down with him. Pidge takes off her helmet, headed to the side of the room where she stored her glasses at the beginning of training. Keith sits down as well, far more sedately than Lance, legs spread out in front of him and leans back on his hands. He tips his head back, sweaty bangs dragging wetly at his forehead.

“We’re done for the day,” Allura says, and a weak cheer goes up from Lance. “Go get some rest. You’ve earned it.” Pidge is already making a bee-line for the door, while Lance jumps up from where he had collapsed. He bounds out the door, Hunk following close behind him.

Keith runs a hand through his sweaty hair, frowns at the feel of it, and gets to his feet. He turns towards the door that leads to a locker room of sorts, sure that his aching joints will be soothed by a hot shower.

“Keith,” Allura calls, and Keith stops in his tracks, turning to face her. “Do you have a moment?” He resists the urge to say something snarky, nods instead, crossing his arms across his stomach. Allura takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself for something. Her hands come up to twist together, a nervous habit she seems to have picked up from Hunk.

“Keith,” she says again, and now it feels like she’s buying herself time, “It might be time for us to consider that Shiro… That Shiro might not come back.” Keith can feel his shoulders hunch; his metaphorical hackles rise.

“He’s coming back.” He sets his jaw stubbornly and narrows his eyes, a look that got him in trouble at the Garrison more times than he can count.

“Keith,” this time it’s almost a plea, begging him to not drag this out, to agree and be done with it. “It’s been almost a month.”

 _Last time took him a year_ , Keith wants to say, but doesn’t. The words are caught in his throat.

“You need to let him go.” Keith shakes his head, ever stubborn. “Please, it’s what he would want.”

He lets out a wild laugh, cracked and loud in the quiet of the training room. “So that’s it, then?” Allura draws back, startled. “You drag him into this war that he never asked for, force him into leading when he never wanted to-“

“I didn’t force him-“

“And then when he’s lost his usefulness, when _he needs us most_ , you just shrug and let go?”

“That’s not-“

“If one of us disappeared, you know he wouldn’t stop searching until he found them! Hell, Allura, he risked everything when you were taken!”

“And it almost cost us Voltron! You almost _died_ , Keith!” He lets out a derisive snort.

“Yeah, well, it all worked out, didn’t it? You’re still around and able to tell us to move on.”

“Keith, this isn’t about our personal feelings, this is about the universe and taking down the Galra Empire-“

“Oh, I _know_ , Princess.” There’s venom in his voice. Keith can’t control himself, it’s like the floodgates have opened and he’s spewing poison, voicing harsh words that he only lets himself think late at night, too cruel and ugly for the light of day. “I _know_ about your hatred for the Galra. I _know_ how much you want revenge for what they did to your people. Don’t think I don’t see that we’re nothing but pawns to you – weapons to throw at the Galra and replace when they break!”

Allura looks like Keith slapped her, horror and shock spreading across her face, and Keith bites his lip. He never meant to say that, she was never supposed to hear those things. What was _wrong_ with him? Allura bows her head, her hands tighten into fists at her sides. When she looks up, fury is etched into every line of her face, eyes steely and hard.

“Do not,” she says, voice low and laced with warning, “bring Altea into this.”

“Princess,” he begins.

“And do _not_ imply that I do not care about each and every one of you. Do not make me out to be the villain in this tale, because I will not stand for it.” Tears shine in her eyes, unshed, and Keith can feel the fight drain out of him. “I have lost more than you could ever know, so do not suppose you know how I feel. I am as hurt by Shiro’s disappearance as you, but we have a _duty_ to the universe. Which you seem to have forgotten.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why the reluctance? I know it is hard, to step up and fill another’s place. But you’ve said it yourself, before: ‘everyone in the universe has a family.’ What’s changed?”

“It’s Shiro,” Keith says simply, a shoulder coming up in a shrug. Allura looks away. They both stand there in silence for a few moments, wounds open and raw, fight and anger gone.

“Keith,” Allura says. She sounds tired. “We need you to pilot the black lion. Shiro named you his successor, we’ll all stand beside you. It is… not ideal, but it is what needs to be done.” Keith’s shoulders slump, head drops, glances up at Allura through his bangs.

“Who would pilot Red?”

“Lance.” He huffs a humorless chuckle at that.

“And Blue?”

“I will.”

Keith nods. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“That’s good enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this @ u all* i've had enough of staring at this pls take it away from me
> 
> if i had planned better, i would've had a chapter that actually has shiro in it bc it's the boy's birthday. alas


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the late update, this week has been Hell. literally.

The prison, it turns out, is that second walled complex that Shiro first saw when descending the hillside. He’s hauled through checkpoint after checkpoint, and he can’t help but feel like it’s overkill. He’s just one human, confused and completely unarmed. Idly, he wonders if other prisoners are subjected to such treatment.

After they’ve passed through the last set of mechanized gates, he’s taken to a side room, where he’s stripped of his armor. Apparently, aliens understand alien armor better than he does.

Figures.

They hose him down with frigid, sharp-smelling water, the pressure turned up far too high. He stands, naked and shivering and smelling of antiseptic as his jailors prowl around him, poking sharp claws into the muscles in his arms, shoulders, thighs. Shiro’s never really been body shy, but the way they look at him – like a piece of _meat_ – makes him shrink in on himself. He stares at the corner of where the ground meets the wall, tries to distance his mind from the current situation.

“This one will do well in the mines,” one of the Galra says to the other, and suddenly there’s a jumpsuit being shoved into his hands, a shorter shirt folded on top. Shiro briefly wonders at why he’s been given a _crop top_ of all things, but then he’s being told to dress, and he glances down at the suit in his hands and catches sight of metal glinting in the purple lights and his brain screeches to a halt.

_What is-_

He raises his right arm, eyes focusing on where flesh meets metal in a gnarled knot of scar tissue.

_Where did his-_

Shiro flexes _his_ arm, and the _metal_ arm responds, he can hear the soft _whirr_ of fans and gears turning. He wiggles _his_ fingers. Five _metal_ fingers wiggle in response, curl into a fist.

_How-_

He distantly hears his guards growl something to him, the way his breath has picked up, barely notices the fine tremor running through him. Shiro turns his arm, and lights wink off of the glossy metal. Shiro can almost hear shrill laughter, feel bands across his chest and ankles and wrists. Can almost feel the pain in what remains of his right arm, nerves alight and burning with agony. His chest feels tight, and now he’s intensely aware of his gasping breaths, each shallow and panicked. The guards say something again, but he can’t focus on it, so he shakes his head. Shiro’s eyes are drawn back to the arm, runs a trembling finger along the length of it. He can feel the pressure of his finger, but the metal is cool to the touch and he yanks his hand back.

His breathing is even more erratic now, if possible, and he feels light-headed. Black spots dance at the corners of his vision.

Hands grab at his shoulders, haul him out of the room, still naked and wet, but shaking for a reason that has nothing to do with the chill in the air. Shiro follows along blindly, everything a haze as they march through hallway after hallway, past row after row of cells that all blur together. Finally they stop and toss him in a cell, the jumpsuit landing in a crumpled heap next to him.

Shakily, Shiro gets to his hands (hand? Can he count the other one as _his_?) and knees, pushing himself up just to curl into a ball, cool metal trapped between his stomach and thighs.

Now that he’s not being poked and prodded and hauled around, Shiro shuts his eyes and focuses on his breathing, trying to deepen the shallow gasps, trying to even out their rhythm. He vaguely thinks he’s dealt with this before, but he’s too exhausted to try to figure out when or why. Ugly thoughts – memories? – rear their heads and he pushes them away with difficulty, tries to clear his mind and just breathe.

In. Out. In.

There are soft whispers, a shuffling sound somewhere in front of him. Shiro shuts his eyes tighter, bows his head.

Out. In. Out.

A hand lands on Shiro’s bare knee and he flinches, trying to retreat further into the corner, eyes snapping open. He can feel how wide his eyes are, knows how panicked he must look, can feel his breathing start to pick up again. The being in front of him holds up its four hands as it falls back onto its rump, posture open and vulnerable, a gesture of good will.

“Peace, peace,” xe whispers, voice soft and melodious. “I did not mean to frighten. Only to help.” Shiro eyes xir, takes in xir softly glowing skin, the antennae that protrude from xir forehead, xir large, flat eyes. Finally, Shiro nods, letting the tension melt from his shoulders, and the shaking starts up again, stronger this time.

The being places a hand on Shiro’s knee again, the touch gentle and warm, while xe reaches for the jumpsuit that lays discarded on the floor.

“Here,” xe says, offering the jumpsuit, “it will keep you warm.” Xe leaves xir hand on Shiro’s knee while another set go to work on the jumpsuit, tugging open a previously hidden zipper. “These are hard to put on without help,” xe says conversationally. Shiro doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall behind him, breaths still far too fast. He’s suddenly so very, very tired. His headache from before has reappeared with a vengeance, throbbing gleefully in his temples. He hears a huff from the being, before one of his legs is being tugged at, and he jumps again.

“Peace,” the being says, “Give me your leg. I will help.” It’s a strange request from a strange being, offering strange help in a strange place. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it – an alien trying to put him into what’s little more than a onesie – but he can’t find the energy to do so. Shiro relents, lets his leg be dragged out and away from his body, lets the being carefully manoeuver him into the suit, each touch soft and kind, and Shiro can’t help but lean into them.

Soon, the alien is zipping up the suit in the back and giving Shiro a pat on the shoulder. Xe grabs the over shirt, runs a careful hand down the front of it, traces the edging on the hem.

“Mines?” xe asks, glancing up at Shiro. He nods. “Apologies. It is hard work down there.” Xe offers the shirt, and Shiro takes it, pulls it over his head. It smells awful, and he tries not to gag. The alien sits down next to him, a set of arms folded against xir midsection, another hand on Shiro’s shoulder, the touch grounding. Shiro shuts his eyes again, turns his attention back to breathing, trying to force down the panic that’s still bubbling under his skin. The being next to him says nothing, just sits there in companionable silence.

They sit there for several moments while Shiro tries to collect himself. Finally, he heaves an explosive sigh, turns to the alien, offers a weak smile. Xe withdraws xir small, warm hand, and Shiro bites back a whine at the loss of contact.

“Thanks,” he says, “for uh, the help.” The alien just bobbles xir head, gives a shrug, the motion rippling through two sets of shoulders.

“It is what we do,” xe says, simply. Like that explains anything. Shiro must look confused, because xe elaborates, “We must stick together, if we desire to make it out of here.” Xe gestures towards the rest of the cell, and Shiro realizes for the first time that they’re not alone. Other beings cluster together at the opposite side of the cell, giving Shiro and the alien (his friend?) a wide berth. Some raise tentative hands and hooks and claws in a cautious greeting, an acknowledgement more than a wave. Hesitantly, Shiro returns the gesture, and the beings turn back to each other, conversation starting up in hushed whispers.

“You do this for all the new arrivals?” His friend shakes xir head, antennae swaying gently.

“Not usually. Your distress was quite… potent.” Shiro winces at that and tries to not feel embarrassed by the fact that all these aliens witnessed his naked and soggy panic attack. He feels weak, pathetic. He should be _better_.

“Stop that,” the alien gives him a gentle bump with xir shoulder, “it was a reasonable reaction, given the circumstances.”

Shiro gives a bitter snort, then pauses. “You read minds?” He can’t explain the fear that jolts through him at that thought. The alien shakes xir head, again.

“No, no. My race – the Teiox – are naturally empathetic. We pick up on emotional changes much like other creatures detect changes in pressure.” Xe gives a shrug. “It is useful, in situations like this.”

Shiro nods, and he feels inexplicably relieved. He then realizes that he doesn’t know this being’s name, despite the help xe’s offered. Shiro half turns towards the alien, offers a hand. Lights glint off metal, and he pushes aside a wave of discomfort that leaves him dizzy. He switches to his left.

“Shiro,” he offers. The alien gives his hand a curious glance, before looking him in the eyes again.

“Your race?” xe asks.

“No, no. My name.”

“Ah,” xe says. Shiro pulls back his hand when it’s clear that the alien doesn’t get the gesture. “Bek Mo.”

“Bek Mo,” the name sounds strange on his tongue, and Bek Mo hides a smile behind a hand at his terrible pronunciation.

“Close enough,” xe says. “Now you should rest. The first day is always the worst.” Shiro bites his lip at the stark reminder of their situation and nods. He doubts sleep will find him, but he’ll give it a shot.

The floor is hard and cold, but there are no beds in this communal cell, so he settles on his side, back pressed to the wall. Another alien approaches them and settles down next to Bek Mo. Soon they are whispering together, words blending and swirling and Shiro is slipping and falling and-

_And then he’s flying, speeding across red sand illuminated by the cold stars above, warm arms wrapped around his waist, laughter torn away by the whipping wind. There’s a cliff up ahead, and he leans closer to the handlebars, bent nearly double to reduce drag. They soar off the cliff and there’s a shriek from behind him, sounding less like one and more like three and-_

_And the desert around him is replaced by open space, Jupiter looming in the window. A hand on his shoulder, a glance reveals Matt, smiling and smug, like he’s told a terrible joke. But the look on his face shifts to one of horror and fear and-_

_And he’s still flying through space, pell-mell and off-kilter, desperation urging him faster and faster and Jupiter whizzes past in the space between a blink, a breath, and-_

_And then he’s in a cockpit, wrapped and warm and cradled, a soft rumble filling the calm silence. There’s a feeling of_ understanding _and_ union _and_ safety _and he lets himself sink deeper into the connection. Underneath there’s_ worry _and_ apology _and_ guilt _and he tries to soothe it, and the rumble grows louder, becomes more jarring and-_

And Shiro’s being shaken awake. Bek Mo motions for him to get up.

“Come, come, the day is beginning.” Shiro heaves himself to his feet, tries to shake off the remnants of his dream, the feeling of safety. He follows a step behind Bek Mo, out of the cell and into the throng of prisoners bustling down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a note: i do not have ptsd, and try to be as accurate and respectful as i can be. shiro's panic attack is based off of my own experiences, so.
> 
> if u enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

Pidge hates to wander the castle hallways by herself, even if it’s during the day. Their silence is eerie, and the sounds of her footsteps shuffling down empty hallways sends chills down her spine. The castle is a large place, so many of its nooks and crannies unexplored, unmapped, and it’s unsettling to think about how it’s meant to house hundreds (thousands?) rather than the seven – six – of them.

It’s part of the reason why she stays in her lab so late into the night, why she always makes sure to be up when the others head off to breakfast.

With the distance between everyone recently, she finds herself walking the hallways alone more frequently than she would like.

Which is why Pidge finds herself strolling down the hall at pace that’s faster than strictly necessary, tapping away at a pad that she found discarded in one of the cabinets in her room. She’s walking on autopilot, letting her feet take her wherever they please, completely engrossed in her newest gadget. The Alteans had some amazing things, and it’s easy to forget their technological advances when one is mentally bonded with a giant robotic lion that can fly through space.

This certain pad has a map of the castle downloaded onto it, and it’s fascinating to see the layout from a non-tactical point of view. It might be fun, to round everyone up and go exploring.

There’s the sound of doors opening, metal ringing on metal, the panting of someone training. Pidge glances up, is mildly surprised to find herself in the training room. Keith’s hard at work, fighting against a gladiator – jumping and dodging and slicing. He’s doing well, and Pidge doesn’t want to disturb him. She backs out of the room quietly, and the doors slide shut in front of her. She turns on her heel, heads back the way she came.

And so it goes: Pidge finds herself in the control room, exchanges some awkward pleasantries with Allura and Coran; finds herself in the observatory, lights dimmed and empty space just beyond the windows; finds herself in the lounge, couches starting to get dusty from disuse; finds herself in the kitchen, where Hunk’s stress baking (again. He stress bakes a lot these days.). It isn’t until she finds herself in the residential hall, standing in front of Shiro’s closed door that she realizes what she’s been doing.

She’s been looking for Shiro, unconsciously seeking his approval for the expedition she’s started planning.

The door _whoosh_ es open at her presence, revealing a room as dull and lifeless as the rest of the castle. Pidge takes an uneven step in, notes the perfectly made bed, the empty desk, the casual clothes folded neatly on the nightstand. She draws in a shuddering breath, holds it, and then her knees are crumpling and she’s falling to the ground. She’s heaving gasping sobs and she’s shaking as it hits her, again, that he’s _gone_. Shiro’s gone, he’s gone, and he’s probably never coming back, the universe is so big and so cold and so hostile and _oh god he’s gone he left us I lost another-_

“Pidge?” She glances over her shoulder. It’s Lance, frozen in the doorway, hand stretched out towards her like he wanted to touch her but wasn’t sure if he would be welcome. Slowly, his fingers curl into his palm, his arm falls back to his side.

Shit.

Hastily, Pidge scrubs at her eyes, fingers smearing over her glasses’ lenses in her haste. She sniffs, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room.

“You… okay, Pidge?” Lance sounds hesitant. That’s fair – any other time, she would’ve bitten his head off. Now, though…

“I’m fine.” Her voice trembles, and the sound of it makes tears prick at the corner of her eyes. Fuck. Fucking _shit_.

Lance lets out a snort, finally coming into the room to plop down beside her, cross-legged and easy. “Yeah, I’m gonna call bullshit.”

Pidge bristles at that and turns to snap at him, but the fire in her dies when she sees the sympathetic look in his eyes. She’s suddenly tired of the emotional distance between them all, and she slumps against Lance’s side.

“I just- I know that we’re all trying to be strong and brave now that Shiro’s…” Lance hums, and Pidge takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And I know that we’re trying to keep our own problems to ourselves, because everyone is going through some shit, but,” she stops, and Lance gives her an encouraging nudge. “But all we’ve done is make ourselves into islands! Voltron is all about connection and unity but we’re more separate than ever! Keith’s taken over as the black paladin, all the lions have pilots but what’s it matter? Lance, at this point I don’t think we _can_ form Voltron!” She’s breathing hard, like she’s run a race and she sniffs loudly. Lance has his arm around her shoulders and she leans into it.

“I feel you,” he murmurs, hand rubbing up and down her arm. “So tell me what’s been bothering you.” Pidge bites her lip – talking about emotional vulnerability and _giving_ it are two different things. Lance keeps rubbing at her arm; up, down, up, down.

“It’s just,” she lets out a shaky breath, “I came up here to find my family, you know? I didn’t think I’d end up with more than I started out with.”

“Sounds like the opposite of a problem to me.”

Pidge shoves away from Lance, just a bit, and stares him hard in the face.

“It’s a problem when they keep disappearing.” And shit, here come the water works again. Pidge presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, hard, as if that will stop the tears from falling. “I miss Matt,” she gasps out, “And Shiro. He- he’s like a brother to me. At first he was just a stand-in for Matt, but now he’s so much more.” Pidge lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob at that. “Space took my brother from me, gave me another one, then _took him too_. What am I supposed to do when the people I love keep being taken away from me?”

Lance twists and pulls her into a tight hug. “Oh, Pidge,” he whispers. One of his hands pets through her hair and she _sobs_ , great gasping things that make her chest ache. She tucks her face into the crook of Lance’s neck, snot and tears mixing together and staining the collar of his shirt.

They sit like that for a long time, long enough for Pidge to get herself under control. She pulls away slightly and Lance lets her go, easily dropping his arms from around her. Pidge swipes at her eyes and nose, both of which are red and sore. The embarrassment is starting to set in and Pidge hides her face in her hands.

“Sorry,” she mutters from the cave her hands make. “Thanks for letting me… unload all that on you.”

Lance carefully peels her hands from her face, gently holds her hands in his. “It’s alright, Pidge,” he says, serious and kind, “It’s okay to let others in.” Pidge glances away, and she suddenly remembers Lance comes from a big family. It makes sense that he’s good at this sort of thing.

He stands, drags her to her feet with him. Lance pats her on the back, then spins her and marches her to the door. They pause in the hallway, both unsure of what to do now. Lance stretches his hands above his head, yawns loudly. Pidge fiddles with her glasses.

“I’m going to, um, head to the lab,” she finally says and Lance nods.

“I’ll go see what Hunk’s up to.” Pidge snorts.

“He’s in the kitchen. Stress baking. Like usual.”

Lance shrugs, unconcerned. “He needs a taste tester.”

Pidge turns to go, already dreading the solitary walk back to her lab, when Lance’s hand catches the edge of her sleeve. She turns back, eyebrow raised in a wordless question.

“If your stand-in brother’s missing, then I’ll be your stand-in’s stand-in.” He flashes a smile at her. “Don’t worry Pidge, we’ll find both of them.” Then Lance is ruffling her hair and turning to walk down the hall to the kitchen.

Flattening down her hair, Pidge can’t help the little smile that comes onto her face. They’ll find Matt. They’ll find Shiro. They _have_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: my sister did study abroad when i was younger and i would. forget that she was gone and go looking for her, ready to share some banal story abt my day. i'd get to her room before i would remember that oh, right, she's halfway around the world and would get sad that she wasn't there
> 
> it's a little different when said sibling is halfway across the universe, and u have no idea whether or not they're coming back, huh? :^)


	5. Chapter 5

Bek Mo was right in that the first day is the hardest, but Shiro’s not sure he can see much of an improvement in the days that follow. Each day is relatively the same – wake up, eat, work, pass out. Rinse. Repeat.

When all’s said and done, it’s not that bad. Sure, the food is terrible (much, _much_ worse than the green slop that sometimes makes an appearance in his dreams) and the work is exhausting and the living conditions are less than desirable, but Shiro falls into a routine that feels… stable. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, this predictability, and that in and of itself is worrying.

And this time (this time?) he’s not alone. His cell mates are friendly and kind, and they look after each other. While they seem beaten down and submissive, there’s a connection between most of them, a unity that’s borne out of mutual need and understanding. It’s an unusual thing to find in a prison, but Shiro’s not complaining. It’s nice to sleep next to someone at night without worrying that they’ll strangle him in his sleep. Work in the mines isn’t so bad when he has a full night’s rest behind him.

The Galra have select few working in the mines, chiseling away at stone to get at the precious gems and minerals embedded in the walls. Apparently, they’re used to make jewelry and trinkets for the Galra elite, and this planet is more of a tourist trap than anything. It’s grueling, back breaking work, but Shiro gets the feeling that things could be much worse. At least he’s not fighting for his life day in and day out.

So he settles in, contributes to the tentative rebellion brewing in the prison, bides his time for an opportunity to escape.

Until his routine is yanked away from him.

* * *

 

Shiro’s deep in the mines when they take him away, tucked far back in the less mined area of the tunnel, his relatively slight frame allowing him to squeeze into tight cracks that the other prisoners can’t get into. He’s stopped for a quick break to catch his breath when two Galra guards come marching down the tunnel, headed straight for him. Shiro scrambles to his feet and busies himself with inspecting the wall, trying to act like he hadn’t been slacking off.

The guards spin him and shove him up against the rough wall of the tunnel anyways, scanning something in his metal arm.

“Let’s see, here," one of the guards says. The scanner beeps. "Prisoner 117-9875. This is the one.” Their companion grunts an affirmative, and then shackles are snapping into place around Shiro’s wrists. The guards grab him by the shoulder, shove him down the tunnel, heading back towards the entrance of the mines.

Shiro’s mind spins as he tries to figure out what he could be in trouble for as half bored, half curious faces whirl past. He can’t think of anything, except that maybe one of his cell mates turned on him and snitched to the Galra about the rebellion. It’s unlikely, but what else could it be? Shiro’s kept his head down, given the Galra no reason to think he’s anything special.

He’s brought out of the mines and back into the prison complex. They breeze passed decontamination and processing, passed the mess hall, passed his own cell. Shiro’s led through hall after hall, down so many flights of stairs that he can feel the already cool temperature starting to drop. They must be deep underground by now, and the thought of all that rock and dirt and stone sitting heavy above them makes Shiro a bit nauseous.

They stop in front of a thick, mechanized door. One of the guards shucks a glove, places their lightly furred hand on the palm reader jutting out of the wall. A few moments pass before a light on the pad turns green and the door opens with a hiss, cold air billowing out into the corridor. Shiro tries not to shiver. Then he’s being hauled in, and he barely has time to take in the lights and equipment and feeling of _horror_ bubbling up in his chest before his cuffs have been released and he’s being shoved onto a table in the middle of the room, pushed until he’s flat on his back and there are _straps_ around his wrists and ankles and chest and he can’t _move_.

There’s a roaring in his ears, and his vision is mostly black, and he can’t breathe, and it’s then that he starts to fight, jerking wildly against the restraints that don’t budge an inch. There’s an ominous whirring sound coming from his right arm, and what’s left of his shoulder and bicep feels uncomfortably warm. One of the guards says something to the other, something he can’t quite make out, before one of them is touching his arm and feels a panel slide open and then they’re _in_ him, poking and prodding and he screams, vision darkening.

* * *

 

Shiro jerks himself awake sometime later, heaving gasping breaths. He swallows thickly, tongue heavy in his mouth, bites his lip against the scream that’s bubbling up in his chest. A weak tug with his left arm reveals that he’s still strapped down, and his right arm’s unresponsive. There’re no clicks and whirrs coming from it, it’s eerily silent.

The guards must have done something to it.

He’s alone in the cold lab, guards long gone. Why would they haul him away from work just to stick him in here, unguarded? There must be something going on that Shiro's not privy to.

It’s completely fanciful, but Shiro allows himself to imagine that someone’s going to burst through the door, cloth covering their face, and take him away from this place. He latches onto that thought, following it to distract him from the harsh lights shining off of wicked metal.

* * *

 

The next time the door opens, Shiro strains to see who it is, catches a glimpse of long, white hair and is left nearly winded by the thought of _Allura?_

Then the figure turns and it’s not Allura, it’s _her_ , red tattoos gleaming like fresh spilled blood. She smiles, teeth sharp and bright. She steps up to the table where Shiro’s gone stock still, scarcely daring to breathe.

“Hello, Champion,” She croons, voice dry and slithering. One of her clawed hands comes up to caress Shiro’s face and he flinches away. She huffs a laugh at that, then grabs his chin while the other hand traces a deliberate path across the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a while, yes?” She uses his face to shove away from the table, and Shiro’s jaw cracks with the force of it. She busies herself at a cart, lifting and inspecting various instruments.

“Haggar,” Shiro manages to pant, and Haggar whips around, yellow eyes narrowing. There’s rage burning in them. Haggar slams down the scalpel she was brandishing and stalks over to him, moving with a predatory sort of grace. She leans down close, her face just inches away from Shiro’s.

“You do not get to call me that,” she hisses. Shiro bites the inside of his lip and stares impassively up at her. Haggar snarls, draws a hand up and slaps him, nails scoring his cheek. She straightens as Shiro ties to breathe through the pain, and she rests a hand on his shoulder, drumming her fingers in an irritated staccato. “Stupid creature,” she mutters.

“What,” Shiro says, bracing for another blow, “ _should_ I call you?”

Haggar slowly looks down at him, ire replaced by something else. Curiosity, perhaps?

“You do not remember?” Hesitantly, Shiro shakes his head, and Haggar curls her lip in a slow grin, before letting out a bark of laughter. It sounds like a hyena – hungry and deranged. “I believe I can work with that.”

Then she’s moving to stand at the head of the table, her hands on either side of his face. Shiro tries to jerk out of her grip, but her hands tighten, vice-like, holding him still. He can feel power flowing into him, burning hot and scalding, poking and prodding at his mind.

Shiro screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooow sorry abt the long wait.
> 
> one of my professors hates the way i write and i got a less than stellar grade on a creative writing project, which was a bit of a kick in the teeth. i was rlly self conscious abt how i write after that, and it was... hard to get myself to write. so this chapter isn't really all that it could be and i apologize but i figure something is better than nothing, right? right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah blah blah insert stuff abt rl and finals and exhaustion blah blah
> 
> pretty extensive depictions of an anxiety attack in this one, folks

Hunk stares up at the ceiling in his room, the hazy darkness oppressive and thick. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to ignore the feeling of _wrong_ twisting and curling deep in his gut. The bed is firm under him, and no matter how much he tosses and turns, he can’t seem to get comfortable. Eventually, Hunk gives up with a huff, tossing blankets off himself and sitting up in bed. He drags his hands down his face, pressing fingers to his eyes, stops for a moment and breathes before letting his hands flop beside him. Hunk gets out of bed, ankles popping, legs stiff and sore.

The castle hallways are dark, lights dimmed to conserve power during the night cycle. Hunk’s footsteps echo hollowly, shuffling and quiet. The air is brisk, just barely too cold to be comfortable, and Hunk curls his hands into fists to keep his fingers warm.

He makes his way down to the kitchen, feet carrying him there out of force of habit. The lights flick on when they catch Hunk’s movement, casting the kitchen in a cool blue glow.

Hunk’s always thought that the kitchen feels… oddly empty. Sure, they have a dining room, so a table would only get in the way, but with everything fitting so neatly into the walls, there’s a lot of negative space.

Hunk hates it.

It feels cold and _alien_ , nothing like the warm coziness of home, with its soft yellow walls and windowsills full of plants. It’s just another reminder of the things they’ve all lost.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden onslaught of unease, swallowing past the lump in his throat, Hunk taps his fingers against his thumbs, up and down in a line, letting the feeling ground him. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes his nerves ratchet up even more, sends him pacing up and down the length of the kitchen, heart racing. Everything is wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and there’s so little that can be done about it.

With a low, frustrated growl, Hunk stalks out of the kitchen. He’d seen a table somewhere - ah _hah_. Soon he’s hauling a small, round metal table out of one of the side rooms and into the kitchen.

Some chairs get snagged from the dining room, and then Hunk’s got the little table set up in a corner of the kitchen. It’s not much, but it makes the room seem a little less empty, a little more homey. Hunk drops into one of the chairs, lays his head on his arms, lets the shaking overtake him as he does his best not to cry.

These long, sleepless nights are lonely, now.

Before Shiro disappeared, he and Hunk would sometimes run into each other in the middle of the night, each running from the thoughts spiraling around in their heads. Occasionally, Shiro would join Hunk in the kitchen, a warm and quiet presence in the chill of space. Some nights, they’d sit in silence, hands wrapped around warm mugs of the Altean equivalent of hot chocolate. Others, they’d chat and joke as they made snacks, Shiro sitting on the counter, easy and loose, handing Hunk ingredients as they both tried not to think about what’s haunting them.

Shiro had even talked Hunk through a couple of anxiety attacks, had offered him a bowl of warm food goo once the babbling and crying had subsided. And when Shiro would show up with that wild, hunted look in his eyes, Hunk would pull out the space hot chocolate and brew up some liquid comfort. Afterwards, they would both head to bed, tired and wrung out, more settled than they had been before. Hunk had the feeling that Shiro rarely got more sleep after that, but Hunk always slept better after these late-night encounters.

Hunk doesn’t sleep so well any more, kept up late by thoughts of _what if_ and wild scenarios that feature the gruesome deaths of his friends, finding Shiro only for him to be not-Shiro, finding Shiro only for him to die in their arms, finding Shiro only to be _too late_ , finding Shiro-

There’s a knock on the door frame and the sound of someone clearing their throat and Hunk jerks his head up, still shaking, tears still threatening to fall. Coran stands in the doorway, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Mind if I come in?” Hunk shakes his head mutely, not even bothering with trying to wipe away his tears as Coran strolls in. He gives the table a raised eyebrow, but says nothing about it. Instead, he pulls out a chair next to Hunk, sits down with a soft groan. “What seems to be the problem, Number Two?”

For a brief moment, Hunk’s settled by that. He’s Number Two, second tallest, hasn’t been bumped up to One. Shiro’s still out there, still has a place with them, they’re in no rush to fill it. It’s okay. They’re alright.

But-

What if that Shiro-sized hole is never filled?

What if _years_ pass and they never find him? What if Keith has to step up and he cracks under the pressure? What if they fragment and split and leave the universe in more dire straits than they found it?

There’s a power vacuum in the Empire, a power vacuum in Voltron.

Hunk’s sickened by the similarity of their situations.

He’s crying and panting, now, hands shaking uncontrollably. Hunk brings his hands to his face, presses his palms flat against his mouth in an attempt to quiet down. It just makes breathing harder, adds a wet whistling sound as he heaves breaths in and out from between his fingers.

“Easy there, lad,” there’s a soft hand on Hunk’s forearm and he jumps, but it’s just Coran. Goofy, excitable, steady Coran, looking so tired and so sad. “Breathe.”

Hunk shakes his head – it’s too much, everything’s too much, there’s so much strain and tension and he can’t think straight and then he’s babbling out half-coherent sentences punctuated by heaving, hiccupping, squeaking breaths.

“Shiro’s gone, and, and we don’t know what we’re doing and we’re so far from home and everyone’s so angry all the time. And home- it’s fading and my moms’ faces are _blurry,_ Coran. Do you know what that’s like? To realize that you can’t remember what home smells like?” Coran gives Hunk a smile that’s brittle and ancient.

“I do.”

“Oh. Oh _jeez,_ Coran, I didn’t. I’m sorry, it’s just- I don’t know what to do! We’re all kids, Coran!” Hunk has a grip on Coran’s sleeve, desperate and white-knuckled. “We’ve all got families back home and- and-“ Hunk bites his lip, “How many of us aren’t gonna make it home?”

Coran straightens, grabs Hunk by the shoulders. “Hunk,” he says, far more serious than Hunk’s ever heard him sound, “I swear on my life that you will all make it back home. You, Lance, Pidge, Keith, _Shiro_. We’ll find him and end this war and you will all have a home to return to.” He smiles slightly, fingers tightening on Hunk’s nightshirt. “And if the universe has other plans, it’ll have to go through me.”

It’s a flimsy promise, one that won’t stand up to a Galran warship or even the simulated light of day, but Hunk lets himself believe it. He throws himself forward and clings to Coran’s chest, sobs into his shoulder and lets himself have this one moment of surety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates will b sporadic from here on out, if u couldn't tell
> 
> but!!!! w/ this ch we've officially hit the half-way mark!! yippee
> 
> i have every intention 2 finish this but we'll see what my 2 bffs Anxiety and Depression have 2 say lmao


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that "graphic depictions of violence" tag i've got? we're getting there.
> 
> (fake/imagined character death - none of it is real, but possibly still upsetting)

_There’s someone laying on the floor._

_Collapsed in a heap, dark hair dusted with sand, a dark red starting to stain the ground under them. Shiro reaches out a hand to help, hits cold, hard glass, pulls back with a start when he sees himself step out of the darkness. The doppelganger looks up, catches Shiro’s eye, offers a wide smile that is so, so sharp._

_It squats next to the person on the ground, stern hand on their shoulder, nudging them awake. They stir, a soft groan escaping them._

_“Keith,”_ No. No, not- _“get up.” Its voice is hard. Cold. Keith rolls onto his back, eyes half-lidded and bruising._

_“Shiro?”_

_“Yeah, it’s me.” It offers Keith a hand. “Quit laying around. We’ve got work to do. You’ve got to keep fighting.” Keith accepts the hand, winces as he’s pulled upright._

_“What’s going on?”_

_“You have to fight,” is all the doppelganger offers. “Why aren’t you fighting?” It gives Keith a shove, face impassive as Keith stumbles, crumpling back onto the floor as his legs give out from under him. Keith pushes himself back up to his knees, fear and confusion scrunching his brows. The doppelganger merely stares at Keith as it melts into the darkness and then there are doors opening, masked, hooded figures stepping out and turning towards Keith. All at once they rush at him, glittering swords materializing out of nothing, fast and lethal._

_Keith’s still on his knees._

_He won’t have time-_

_The scene shifts, the figures twisting into six-legged beasts carved from stone, triple eyes glowing in the gloom and dust of the arena. Keith’s staggered to his feet, short dagger hanging limply in his hand, black suit torn and flickering sickly purple. Two beasts prowl back and forth in front of him, while the third makes its way behind him, hoping to eviscerate him with its serrated tusks, poison dripping from them, and Shiro can almost hear the hiss of melting sand._

_Keith doesn’t stand a chance._

“You have sent him to his death.” _Shiro whips around, swinging smoothly into a fighting stance. There’s no one around._ “Him, and all the others.”

_“Who’s there?” Shiro calls._

“You pulled them into a war that was not theirs, and they will all pay the price.” _The voice echoes all around, a snake slithering over dry leaves, oil dumped in an ocean, sick, cloying, dead. There’s a huffed laugh, wheezing like an old man on his death bed._ “You are not even there to offer them guidance.” _On the screen, Keith’s backed up against a wall, dagger buried in the sand a few feet away, hulking beasts converging on him. He’s scared, hands pressed to a gash on his side that’s sluggishly oozing blood._

“They will crash and they will burn, and it is all because of you.” _One of the creatures lunges, twisting mid-air and becoming a violet fist, white hair, a scarred nose._

* * *

 

Shiro slams back into himself, panting and dry heaving. He tries to bring his hands up to cover his face, but they’re locked to the chair, same as ever. Instead, he leans his head back against the cool metal of the chair, tries to beat back the nausea and grief bubbling at the back of his mind. _It’s fake_ , Shiro tells himself, _it’s fake._

The witch paces in front of him. He can see fury in the gnarled twist of her fists.

It’s fake, but it feels so real.

It’s hard to keep track of what’s real and what’s not when he’s locked in the pitch black of his cell, when he’s not sure if he’s awake or asleep, when he’s face to face with power and rage that could melt him from the inside out.

She can reach into his mind and _tweak_ so easily. Can break and mold and sculpt with barely more than a twitch of a finger.

The witch turns on him, eyes narrowed, crooked finger pointing accusingly.

“Are you aware, _Champion,_ that all you encounter meet the same grisly death?” Shiro shakes his head because no, that’s not true, it’s another lie, another goddamn lie meant to twist his thoughts and perceptions. She smiles. “Tell me, then, what happened to the red one?”

 _Dead,_ his mind supplies. Torn to shreds by the Klax beasts.

“And the blue?”

Gutted by the Sclep.

“And the yellow? The green? The pink, the orange?”

Poisoned. Strangled. Blown to smithereens in a castle-shaped ship.

“See?” She coos, almost motherly. Then her face darkens, dark clouds crackling with lightning above red rocks. “You even tried to kill my Emperor, you horrid creature. The audacity!” She’s pacing again, cloak swirling behind her. “You, whose species has not even mastered the rudimentaries of space travel. You, who was the lowest of the low before I lifted you from the common rabble. You, who I gifted with grace and energy. You, who are less than the very grit of that miserable mudball you call a planet. You thought you could ruin plans that had been 10,000 years in the making. You thought a group of _children_ led by a once exalted gladiator laid low could defeat the ruler of the known universe. The thought is laughable.” She leans in close, a terrible grin cracking open her face, sharp teeth mere inches from his nose.

“You thought you won, _pet._ Thought that my Emperor had been struck down by your Voltron. You are wrong, and your arrogance will be your undoing and my Emperor’s rebirth.” The witch twists away from him in a swirl of cloak and hair and black magic and then she’s gone.

* * *

 

Alone, in the dark of his cell, Shiro counts on his fingers.

One. Name: Takashi Shirogane.

Two. Age: Twenty-one when leaving for Kerberos.

Three. Occupation: Pilot. Gladiator. Prisoner. A knight of some sort?

Four. Friends: There are (were?) seven.

Five. Goals: He will not let Haggar win.

Shiro rests his head on his knees, fingers tapping against a metal pinky. He used to be able to make it up to ten things he knew about himself. Five is difficult, now.

He taps that pinky. A promise. To himself, to the others, wherever they may be.

He shuts his eyes. Taps his pinky. He will win, he will win, he will win.

No matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let it be known: i'm always down for requests on ye olde tumblr bc i'm trying to get back into the groove of writing. also desperately in need of some fluff in my life bc this fic is. dark. come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://beeblossoms.tumblr.com)!


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